


speed up my heart (again)

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extramarital Affairs, Gen, Implied Murder, Kingsguard!Ned, Kingsguard!Rhaegar, Queen!Lyanna, rework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5818249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It is almost comical an image, his face reddening and his chocking on fury he cannot release. Robert gives a muted roar of rage. Lyanna offers him a vicious little smile. “What can the Stag hope to do against the Wolf?” He is still chocking on air.<br/></p>
</blockquote><br/><br/>The Stag is natural prey for any Wolf.
            </blockquote>





	speed up my heart (again)

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar Targaryen meets his future queen, a figurative and literal interpretation of her position both, mere days before she is to wed the King –once a good friend – Robert.

She stumbles over the too long and much too heavily decorated hem of her skirts, and goes down with a yelp. For a moment he fears that her tumble has hurt her. But Rhaegar does not rush to her – after all, Arthur is the perfect knight and not he. And she does not need the help for what he can observe. Lyanna Stark picks herself up with a somewhat bruised dignity, looking around like a child that still awaits her Septa’s scolding. The knight smiles, a memory of his sister surfacing, in the face of such behaviour.

Gray eyes – bone-hard, winter-cold orbs, so at odds with the rest of her – cut through him. He holds his hand out to this almost-stranger. “It is a surprise, my Lady.”

“The only surprise, ser, is that you are here.” Here is the godswood; he presumes she thought to be alone. Here is a place of prayer to the Old gods, the gods she would worship. But it is also a quiet place, and Rhaegar, if asked, would not hesitate to claim that he’s been guarding her.

Lyanna sits on a fallen trunk, with all the decorum she has left, but not much care. “Shouldn’t you be guarding the King?” That last word is pronounced with that peculiar Northerner accent he can still hear in her brother’s voice at times.

“I am certain Dayne and your own brother can handle our dear King without me for a few short hours.” Her eyes widen slowly and she gives him a small smile.

“And here I thought you were a one of those perfect knight.” She does not mock him. If anything the will-be queen seems delighted in her discovery. Rhaegar tries to think of when he’s last seen so artless a display. “They will probably write songs about you.”

“And grossly exaggerate all my qualities, I’m sure.” The Kingsguard reunites the best, bravest knights in the realm. The elite. The finest of them all.

It’s, upon further inspection, all an elaborated lie.

Rhaegar grins at the sitting woman. She thinks they’ll write songs about him. What a jest. “Might be, it is you who will inspire the bards, my lady. It would make for a fairer song.”

“And what shall they say of me, ser knight?” Lyanna’s eyes fall to the handle of his sword. “I suppose they’ll call me a beauty and a wit. They’ll drown me in praise for the fine sons I give my King and the beautiful daughters. Surely they will mention my skill with a needle.” That he has heard of. “Let us not forget the beautiful love story between my future husband and I.” She gives an unladylike snort. “I hope I go deaf before I hear that song.”

Strange, Rhaegar thinks. Other women would be glad that Robert chose them. This one seems to be almost disappointed. Why, Cersei Lannister is still trying to convince Robert to break off this engagement to Lady Stark. “You will be queen.”

“I will be nothing,” she replies, squaring her shoulders. “Worse than nothing. I will be just another one of Robert’s playthings, to be called upon and discarded on a whim. Ser knight, do you know the King you serve?”

“Well enough.” She’s read him very well. Rhaegar inclines his head in recognition to her skills. Robert is not the worst man to be wed to, but the woman is to him what meat is to the crow. “Then why go through with it?”

“Because the though of my being queen, or rather the thought of my future son sitting the throne, makes my House proud.” So logical. So simple. The court will destroy her, as it does to any innocent that sets foot in it.

Pursing his lips, Rhaegar considers leaving. It will soon be his turn to guard the doors. “I make no promise, Lady Stark, but that my sword will guard you as it guards the King.” He can offer this and no more. Rhaegar does wonder at her determination, despite her own heart’s desire. But duty is duty, he knows it best.

Lyanna smiles then full and genuine. “I do not think the songs would be wrong.” She climbs to her feet almost gracefully. “I must leave before my absence is noticed.” Why she explains herself to him, Rhaegar cannot fathom. But he nods. Pleased, Lyanna sets her hand on his armour clad arm. “We take the same road, no?”

“We do indeed.” Would that they did not. He is sorry for her in a way. Here she is, this young woman, not even dreaming of any possible affection between herself and the King when other ladies faint if Robert as much as looks at them. Then again, one must keep in mind that the attention span of his friend’s is somewhat lacking. At the very least his indifference when he tires of her won’t break her heart. She’s too young for that sort of pain.

“Ned has told me much about you, Ser Rhaegar,” Lyanna confesses, half-shy now that they are out in the open. It takes him by surprise.

“All good, I hope.” He chuckles lightly. Eddard Stark is incapable of speaking ill about anyone. He’s a boy with too many dreams, and too little experience. Too honest by half, too. “How fare your eldest brother and your goodsister?”

Bradon Stark and his Tully wife, the world is full of such ill-wrought matches; it seems to be the norm where nobles are concerned. Lyanna’s reaction can be taken for an agreement. “They do as everyone else, I suppose. Cat will have another child soon. She’s hoping for another son to secure the line.”

Heirs and spares. Rhaegar knows that game. His own family has played it for many years – with much success, if his brothers are anything to go by. “And you, my lady, how do you find King’s Landing?”

“Stifling.” Blunt and merciless. Rhaegar finds himself amused once more. “Is it wrong of me to desire a day filled with snow, like I used to have when I was but a child?”

He allows her to draw closer. “Would it not be a pity for all these blooms to freeze?” All the beauty covered in white show. The South hasn’t seen snow for more than half of Rhaegar’s life.

They speak trivialities the rest of the way and ignore the curious eyes. A Lady and a Whitecloak. Strange sight. Stranger still for Rhaegar is not known as the most sociable of knights. There are others likely to be found in the light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wedding follows a well-established path of pomp and grandeur. The great Houses have gathered in King’s Landing, people all smiles and sparkling eyes – though if from true joy or an excess of the King’s fine wines, it is difficult to tell. But they are merry, and their merriment turns Rhaegar’s stomach.

Lyanna Stark is dressed as a bride and she is uncommonly graceful. Rhaegar wonders briefly if she is considering running away now, acting her role for the benefit of the crowds and then vanishing into the night. The knight’s hand rests easily on the sword at his hip, eyes of a hawk moving left and right, occasionally coming to rest on Robert’s new wife. In the harsh daylight it had not so hard to see her despondence. As any lady of her rank she knows how to act the happy bride they all think her.

His King enjoys the drink in his hand, now and then yelling something to one of the guests. He turns to the Queen and whispers in her ear. Lyanna’s smile glints with ferocity. Rhaegar does think there’s hope for her yet. Whether she obtains happiness too is still to be seen. But she will survive court.

“Your eyes watch her keenly, my friend,” Arthur’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Mayhap too much so.”

Affecting ignorance, Rhaegar turns his head slightly to the side. “I know not your meaning”

“You are no more suited for mumming than the Quiet Wolf is for deceiving.” He gazes at the young Queen. “I’ve never known you to worry for one of Robert’s conquests before.”

“Would that I didn’t. And I shouldn’t, were Robert anything like Wise Steffon.” But Robert is nothing like his father where it counts however.

Arthur grabs a cup of Dornish wine and forces it into Rhaegar’s unoccupied hand. “Drink. Drink and forget, there’s nothing better for it.”

So Rhaegar drinks. He down one cup, two, three; he cannot tell how many he’s had by the time it comes the moment for the bride and the groom to be taken to the bedchamber. His stomach roils in protest at the yells of “Bedding! Bedding!” and the eager hands grabbing at the rich, embroidered material of the Queen’s dress. So Rhaegar drinks some more. He drinks until he can barely see anything before his eyes. If he is to regret it come morning, then so be it.

Somehow the Stark of the Kingsguard comes to be beside him. “Ser Rhaegar,” the youth says, his face so serious even upon this joyous occasion. “Is it wise?” He nods to the full cup.

“Wise?” Rhaegar parrots. He licks his lips, something bitter on the tip of his tongue. “Nay. Not wise. But useful all the same.”

“My sister told me she met you in the godswood.” Eddard Stark takes a cup for himself. They need not watch over the King now. “You intend to keep your promise?”

There is a moment of clarity then, a perfect time to tell the boy exactly how things stand in earnest. Just as soon it is gone, and Rhaegar’s indecisiveness loses him the change to unburden himself of this promise made out of pity. “You worry for her, young knight?” They have no family. No lands. No lovers – though that is not indisputable. Eddard Stark has no right to feel anything towards his sister anymore; Rhaegar never had the right to begin with.

“Robert is not a bad person,” the boy says unfalteringly. The following is implied but not silent in Rhaegar’s ears, Robert may not be a bad person, yet he is no hero of songs. “She asked about his bastards before father sent her here.”

The youngest of Robert’s bastards is a young babe, not even a week old. His courtship with Lyanna started when she was a girl, not even flowered. And he has more bastards than Rhaegar has fingers to count them.

“You fault the man for his infidelity?” Immoral it is certainly, but not unheard of. “He is King. Robert does not care for me and you and what we might say. Do you not know that by now, Ser Eddard?”

“I know it well, yet I hope for the best,” the other confesses. He doesn’t not smile, nor do his eyes lose their iron. “Your promise, will you keep it?”

“To the best of my abilities.” There is no more he can offer. Even is it isn’t likely to bring her any comfort. But why ask him when the brother is here? After all, Eddard shares blood with her. Rhaegar has shared a smile and an hour. That is all between them. And now a promise of protection affirmed to her brother too.

“Cersei Lannister continues to stay in King’s Landing on her father’s orders.” At least the boy has his eyes wide open. Rhaegar gives him a questioning look, his lips quirking in a smile.

“I wouldn’t worry about Cersei Lannister just yet. First she ought to catch Robert’s attention. For the moment he is content with his new wife.” Drunk off his feet, Rhaegar remembers with some satisfaction. Her suffering won’t be long. Tywin won’t give up easily and at some point Cersei will get her wish. “Would it not be better if he sets her aside?” For Lyanna. Not for Lady Stark.

“It would have been better if father left Lyanna her horse riding, and her dreams. It matters little what becomes of her after she gives an heir to the throne – or so says my father. ” By the look of him, the boy doesn’t agree.

“She should be the best Queen she can be. The realm needs at least one person concerned for its wellbeing,” Rhaegar muses. If only to prove that she cannot be replaced. The gods know Robert won’t take more responsibility than he has. It must be hard to rule a kingdom when one is hung-over half the day and the other half drunk.

“And you think my sister is that person?” Eddard looks concerned – perhaps for Rhaegar’s sanity.

“She could be,” the silver-haired knight answers. Sanity is overrated, and his family is knows to have produced one or two less-than-stellar individuals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She comes crying from her husband’s chambers, the stitching of her sleeve torn. The coronet on her head tips off slightly, her curls in disarray. She runs into his arms once the doors are closed. Rhaegar catches her more out of habit than anything else.

“My Queen,” he soothes her, gently rubbing a hand down her back. Her slight frame shakes, tears soaking into his chest. “You must calm yourself, Your Highness.” Her brother is on guard duty at the moment. No doubt he’s seen her leaving in her current state.

“I hate him,” she sobs, clutching at his waist with a firm grip. Nonetheless she regains some semblance of tranquillity when she finally lets go. “I simply went there to request that he allow me to join the Small Council for their talk this evening. My father suggested that my attendance would be welcomed.” She stops and her eyes cloud over. “Ned tried to warn me. I suppose I should start listening to him.”

“What happened?” Rhaegar guides her to a chair.

“I do not understand it myself. I have refused him nothing at all. I tried to be a good wife for the sake of my vows.” Lyanna looks at him with tear-filled eyes as if seeking his approval. Rhaegar gives it; the entire realm knows she does try, even with the perceived failures. “Then why would he shame me like this?” she demands the explanation, her voice cracking. “I would have understood if she was beautiful, or of noble lineage. But she’s just a common trollop. He swears he loves me, and goes on to fuck everything with a skirt.” Is her anger born out of a lover’s scorn? Is it simply anger at being humiliated? Any would be justified.

She looks lost. Not the physical kind. But the mental, emotional lost. The one which is much harder to fix because there is no map for it. Rhaegar is unsure of how to proceed. The Queen is not someone who burdens other with her problems. She does an admirable job of shouldering the load her husband has left solely for her. That she is distressed enough to speak quite so shows how much Robert’s actions affect her.

“Do you love him?” Rhaegar asks suddenly. Women have always loved Robert and he’s always loved them back – if only for a few short hours.

Lyanna shakes her head vehemently. “If there ever was such a time, it’s long gone.”

Why does his heart grow in his chest at those words? Rhaegar closes his eyes, waiting to get back his bearings. “Then, my Queen, there is no reason to concern yourself with him.” He kneels in front of her, daringly taking one of her hands in his own. With his thumb he wipes away a droplet from her cheek. “He is not worth your sorrow.”

Her stare burns him. The Whitecloak finds it hard to breathe, yet at the same time he would not give up his position. Brow furrowing, Rhaegar makes to retreat. He had no right to act in so familiar a manner with this woman; he knows that. If she were any other woman, if he were any other man. But they are who they are.

Lurching forth the Queen catches him by the shoulder, halting his retreat as if by sheer force of will. He is much stronger than her and he could still escape her hold. But her lips are close to his now, almost against them. She breathes slowly, her fingers digging deeper into his skin through the cloth. It seems she wants to speak, but all that comers out is a gasp, a sound so small and at the same time so powerful. It takes a lot of determination not to move towards her, not to give in to the desire that has flowered. And Rhaegar does not have the resolve.

Unconsciously he pushes forth, sealing their mouths together.

She tastes like sorrow.

The strings of his heart pinch painfully, the sound resonating, blending in with her grief. Lyanna pulls herself closer to him, sliding fully into his embrace. She tastes like tragedy. And he loves it. Loves her. How can Robert want anyone else when he has Lyanna? The possibility leaves him bewildered and more than a little angered for her sake. But then again, if Robert wanted her she would not be here in his arms. Which is worse? Which is better? That selfish part of him, the one leading him on, is overjoyed.

Pulling away, Rhaegar pushes her back softly. His care for her is as such that he cannot let her be destroyed by it. He shakes his head gently when she makes to pull him back. “I can’t. You can’t. This is impossible.” His fingers itch to touch her again. His arms feel empty. Rhaegar bites his tongue against the confession crawling up his throat. He has to leave. He has to get away before everything between them is ruined. All he wants to do is wrap her in his arms and kiss her again. All he wants is to take her and disappear altogether.

It is folly. It is madness. It is love, and this is why he has avoided the feeling. Rhaegar turns around, getting ready to leave. If only he could convince his legs to move along. Almost there. One foot leaves the ground.

“I love you,” she says over the storm in his head. And time stands still.

That is the only explanation Rhaegar can find. Lyanna stands before him, hands pulling at the neckline of her dress. He looks away. This cannot be happening. Walking away is difficult enough. How can he step over the threshold if she does this?

“Look at me,” she orders him. This is the voice of a Queen speaking. “Look at me! I said, look at me!”

He looks, pulled in by her voice. Is he to be a slave to her, then? He looks and freezes instantly. “What is this?” he breathes out. The mottled skin is rather vocal in its cries of protest. And this is only from the waist up. “What is this?”

“Robert’s love. What else?” She comes closer to him, and takes his hand. She touches the tips of his fingers to an angry red mark. “This is from today. He is forever grabbing me, quite forcefully, when in one of his moods. I was more concerned to see him reading when I’d entered, though.” Lowering the digits to another bruise, she explains that one too. “He was angry that I had gone from his rooms without telling him. It hurts only for a second but the effects, well, you can well see, ser.”

“Gods!” He’s going to be sick. Of their own volition his fingers find other marks.

“I love you,” she says again. Standing on her tiptoes she can almost reach his lips.

Giving in, Rhaegar knows he’s already too deeply lost within her. “And I love you. May the Gods forgive us.” If they don’t, they are not fair Gods, and Rhaegar will not waste time worrying.

And one by one his thoughts go out under her spell, the warning melting away.

Casanna Baratheon is born when the snow starts falling. She is her mother’s image and for that Lyanna kneels in front of the altar of Gods both old and new and gives thanks each and every day. Her baby girl does not look anything like the man who sired her – though not even Lyanna is sure which man is the one she ought to give her gratitude to upon this point. She supposes only time will tell. But her precious daughter, unaware of her mother’s troubles, finds herself a happy world to live in.

The little princess does not inspire much interest in her supposed father. “It is well, I suppose,” Robert comments, holding the child in burly arms. “The next time you will be sure to give me an heir, won’t you, sweet Lya?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lyanna answers taking her daughter back to her bosom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For some years her womb remains empty, much to her surprise. Lyanna is not certain if it should make her glad or not, to foil Robert’s plans. Just when she is about to resign herself to not having fulfilled her duty as queen her middle starts thickening. At first she is apprehensive, but as time goes on, Lyanna eases again into her state of pregnancy.

She is glad for Rhaegar. She is glad he does not shy away from Casanna. “She may not be yours,” Lyanna whispers when they are out in the gardens, Casanna chasing after a butterfly under the watchful eyes of the Queen’s ladies and other servants belonging to the princess. “You needn’t trouble yourself so over her.”

He gives her then a look that for many years would open a wound in her heart. “But she is your. I could never be anything less than this when you and yours are concerned.” Rhaegar inclines his head as the King comes to tell his Queen that he will depart for a long hunting trip.

“I shall visit Riverrun,” Robert proclaims.

And his mistress, Lyanna does not doubt that Lysa Tully will be happy to see the father of her child. Or perhaps he will not go at all to Riverrun. He might as well change his mind and visit Cersei Lannister, the young bride of Stannis. Lyanna has not missed the way Robert’s eyes followed the blonde at the wedding feast.

Either way she is glad to see him go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the pains of birth are next upon her, Lyanna realises it is too soon. Yet her body is already releasing the baby without waiting for her consent. What comes out is barely even human. The skin is pale and taut, veins can be seen through it. The head is too big, the rest too small. And good Gods, she can see the blue of the child’s eyes. This one was Robert’s. Shame and mortification gnaw at her as the poor soul is wrapped in a clean sheet. Part of her is morbidly pleased that her body rejected Robert’s seed, and another grieves for the lost child. Lyanna cries and cries and she does not know for what.

“He was my child as well,” she weeps, kneeling before the Mother. “It pleased the Gods to take him, I can offer no opposition, yet I beg for some relief, Mother.”

Robert does not come back to King’s Landing for half a year.

The sun is shining and the snows are melting when her husband returns with Sweetrobin Rivers. The boy is almost of an age with Casanna and they get along marvellously. Lyanna tries not to feel offended by the presence of the King’s bastard, for she knows herself not innocent in this matter, and she will not judge Robert this once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A while later, Lyanna herself is sure her womb has quickened again, and this time she knows exactly to whom she owes the sweet babe that will grace her arms. It is a coincidence of the happy kind that she may easily claim the babe to be early, Lyanna thinks as she joins her King in bed days after his return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when the icy winds pick up once more she hold the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. “Jon Baratheon,” she murmurs, not without a hint of sarcasm, into her son’s dark hair. He too looks like her. His eyes are silver in the right light, and in the quietness of the night she fancies there is some violet in there too.

Her children are wolves. Robert is blissfully obvious to the truth, though it stares him right in the face. And somehow Lyanna’s attitude towards Sweetrobin thaws with the birth of her own son. She hadn’t even realised she’d been envious of Lysa Tully having a healthy boy when her firstborn son did not live long enough to draw a single breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Towards Jon Robert is equally neglectful as he is of his realm. It is Lyanna who truly rules. She takes it upon herself to find proper instructors for her children. She makes sure the coffers are not empty. She tries her hardest to keep the peace, all for the hope that her son will one day inherit all of this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Casanna and Jon too remain in the dark on the matter of their parentage. But Rhaegar knows, and Lyanna knows, and sometimes she worries that someone else might know too. Her suspicions lay dormant for many years, until her very own brother gives her reason to think on them once more. Ned had grown disillusioned with the court and its King, and even with his sister. Yet he would not betray her.

“Lyanna, all his bastards have his looks,” her brother points out.

“What would you have me do?” she asks tiredly, eyes stinging from all the late nights she spends reading over documents.

“Secure the throne for Jon.” They share a smile over their wine cups. “Have a person you trust named regent in case the King should perish before your son reaches the age of majority.”

“Gods protect us from such a day,” Lyanna says wryly. “I do believe father will come to our aid in this.”

“Brandon would happily join His Highness on a hunt,” Ned supplies, almost bored.

 

And wherever Brandon is, wine is sure to be in the vicinity. And where there is wine, Robert Baratheon had little control over his imbibing. He does love his drink, Lyanna considers, her mood lifted. “Very well. I am sure my husband would benefit from such an outing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benjen kisses his sister’s cheek, remarking that she looks radiant for a woman in her precarious position. “How is the King?” he asks, taking her hand in his,

“Predictably in pain. But Robert , bless his soul, has not stopped being amazed by it yet.” She invites her youngest brother to sit down. “How is mother?”

“Perpetually upset with our esteemed father,” Benjen replies. He hands her the documents over the tabletop. “You husband was very quick in his decision.” He smiles. “If the King somehow perishes, you and I, along with Pycelle and Tyrell will guide sweet Jon.”

“When,” Lyanna corrects, her hands folding demurely in her lap. “One hardly requires a maester’s chain to figure out that he’s not long of this world. I shall pray for his soul. I suggest you do the same.” The irony of her words is not lost on Benjen. While Bradon is the sharpest wit – and the cruelest too, some may argue – Benjen possesses himself a rather sardonic nature; one that he enjoys taking advantage of as often as he may.

“May his pain subside, and his agony come to an end.” He regards his sister a moment longer, before finally posing that question which still bothers him, “Will you tell Robert?”

“I might,” she confesses with the troubled mien of a child caught doing something explicitly forbidden. There is something in her eyes that tells him she’ll enjoy the retribution, perhaps even more than she should. “I deserve at least this much,” she defends herself when the silence reaches her ears. Lyanna brushes the creases away from her already smooth dress. “How is it that I’ve heard nothing of a wedding for you, little brother? It is past time you got yourself a wife.”

“Don’t start,” he warns. “They wanted to marry me to a Frey.”

“Was she not to your liking?” His sister laughs at the face he makes. “At least father grows more tolerant with age.”

“That and the fact that he has two nephews to secure the line of succession.” There is a shared smile between the two of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He had been truly surprised when Lyanna told him about Casanna and Jon, but now that he thinks of it the whole situation makes sense. The only thing that can make his sister stay is a strong affection. He should have figured it out sooner. He wonders how Ser Rhaegar will take it when he finally understands the plot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Again there is a sense of cruelty to the shine of his sister’s eyes as she gets up from her seat and makes her way to the window. “You should marry that Ryswell girl. Brandon would be livid.”

“You won’t ever forgive him, will you?” Though he does not chide, Lyanna can well hear the exhaustion in his voice. “He regrets his folly now, Lyanna. Why is that not enough? Ned has moved on.”

“I won’t forgive any of them,” she says, cheeks flushing in anger. She tries to suppress her irritation. “He loved Catelyn Tully. If Brandon had thought with his head and not with his cock, at least one of us would have been happy.”

This is one of those old horrors that crop up from time to timer to haunt them. Benjen closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “When has Brandon ever thought with anything but his cock?” He makes light of it, but Tully’s daughter had loved Ned too. Before Brandon somehow convinced her to be his instead – Lyanna’s opinion on the matter is so ghastly that he dares not entertain it for more than one moment. “She might have been after the heir of Winterfell all along.”

The Queen rolls her eyes. “It is come to my attention that you men do not care much how you get a woman, so long as you do.”

“Now that is unfair!” cries Benjen. “You ought not to lump us all together, else I might say that all women are such and such, which would no doubt offend you and the female population in general.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Despite their differences, he accepts to join her into Robert’s chamber. The Queen wishes to say her goodbyes to her King. She is sure of step and straight of back, but Benjen can still see the burden resting heavy on her shoulders.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robert’s injuries are painful to see. Apparently boars are that much harder to hunt when one is inebriated. Lyanna kneels so she may speak into her husband’s ear what most assume are sweet, kind, gentle encouragements. Or so most courtiers assume when they see the petite, so very distraught wife. That only goes to show how well they know their Queen. Lyanna won’t correct their assumptions. She simply lowers her head close to Robert’s face and calls his name softly.

“You Highness,” she tries to gain his attention. “Robert, husband.” Blue eyes settle on her, they are clouded. “I would have a moment of privacy, my lords!” she calls out to the others in the room. Lyanna can barely hear them leave. Her heart is pounding in her chest. The doors close with a sift thud. “May the Seven have care of your soul where you go, Robert. But before you leave me here, listen to what I tell you.” There is a curious quality to his stare now. He manages to make a weak sound. “Ah, patience!” Lyanna settles on the edge of the bed, her lips move very close to his ear. “You precious line has been unbroken for so long that none can name all the heirs between Orys and yourself. But I tell you now a secret, something I wish you to take to the grave with you. Though my children carry your name – and so will their heirs for as long as we endure – they are not of your blood.”

It is almost comical an image, his face reddening and his chocking on fury he cannot release. Robert gives a muted roar of rage. Lyanna offers him a vicious little smile. “What can the Stag hope to do against the Wolf?” He is still chocking on air.

And with that she leaves him, calling for the maesters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mother, why are you looking at Lord Targaryen so intensely?” Jon hands the Queen Mother a cup of the best Arbor wine they have.

“Am I?” Lyanna questions, old eyes turning to her grown son. “He looks like his uncle, does he not? I suppose it is the familiarity of his face.”

Daeryn Targaryen does look a lot like Rhaegar did. Lyanna studies the young man closely. He is not as tall as Rhaegar was, but his face holds the same proud features. The eyes are different though. There is something softer about them. Rhaegar’s stare would pierce whoever it was directed towards. To the day of his death he used those eyes of his to enthral her. At his side Belenna Redwyne laughs at some witty observation. He also smiles, more than Rhaegar ever had. There is not a serious bone in that body of his.

“It is unfortunate that we have lost Ser Rhaegar.” Jon remembers Rhaegar as one of the esteemed men of Robert’s Kingsguard. Lyanna does not have the heart to tell him the truth. Not now. It has been so many years. “I am sorry you lost a friend.”

His death had come so close to Eddard’s. Lyanna tries not to think about it too often. But she supposes that the mourning dress she continues to wear does not help matters. “How is Margaery?”

“Very well. Both she and our daughter are.” Jon beams at his mother. He is so much in love with the little girl he cannot spend enough time speaking of her. “Margaery wanted to name her Lyanna for you, lady mother, but I think it was more appropriate to call her Lorra.”

Lyanna smiles indulgently at her son. He may be her boy, but he is, like most men, led by the whims of his wife, though he does not realise it yet. She laughs softly. They tell her the young Queen is much like she had been, with the exception that her influence over the King is one of the kind which brings fruition with it. They also tell her that Margaery Tyrell is her heir not only in comport. Lyanna has to laugh at that. Margaery Tyrell is so very little like her; in the best of ways. The young woman is quite taken with her husband. The new Queen is a wife too, more so than Lyanna had ever allowed herself to be.

Nay, the Tyrell girl is nothing like her, thank the old Gods and the new for that.

“Perhaps this time she will offer you a son,” Lyanna says when Jon pauses to breathe. Casanna has already birthed her third son by her Lannister husband – all three boys with golden hair and peculiarly stormy eyes. Yet her daughter is a happy woman and that is all Lyanna wants for her.

“Or might be she will give me another daughter. Whichever the case, mother, I will be most glad.” He is yet not advanced in years. With all the time he has to try for an heir and all the optimism of a young man, Lyanna needn’t urge him to produce one as is. “If not, a Queen would do for this throne.”

It is the spark in his eyes and the smile on his face that alerts Lyanna to her child’s knowledge. People speak. No doubt he’s heard of her masked reign. Behind the man he believes to be his father and in his younger years, Jon has seen a woman’s rule. No doubt he thinks it would be acceptable to place a daughter on the throne if a male cannot be had.

“A strong woman, might be.” Lyanna smiles at him. “The nobles would protest.”

“A strong woman would see that their words are only that – words.” The King raises his glass in salutation towards one of his councillors. “Will you not return to King’s Landing with me, mother? You divide your time between Casterly Rock and Winterfell, yet you do not come to see me. Why is that?”

The Capitol holds unpleasant memories for Lyanna ever since Rhaegar’s death. They overwhelm her. “It is very crowded, my son. A woman my age needs peace and quiet, not the liveliness of King’s Landing.”

“Old, you?! Nonsense. You are as spry as ever.” His eyes search hers. “And do not speak to me of peace when you have Casanna three hellions on your heels. How do you ever manage with them?”

“They are not as wild as you make them out to be,” Lyanna chides. “Your Lorra could take them on any day and still win.”

“My Lorra is a true warrior. I’m afraid nothing good will come out of her lessons with her uncles.” Willas and Loras Tyrell are very much attached to their niece. One teaches her the art of strategy, the other the art of wielding weapons; although Jon suspects she won’t have much need of it within the keep’s grounds. “Margaery forever despairs at the torn hems and stained clothing. She asked me to not allow it any longer.”

Lyanna sips her wine. Her eyes are drawn to Benjen and his obscenely young wife. The girl is more bosom than she is brain, but Lyanna will not fault her brother’s choice.

She gives the couple a smile.

The widowed Catelyn Stark, mother of the current Lord of Winterfell, Geryon Stark, sits a bit away. She holds in her lap a grandson; Lyanna thinks it might be little Ned. She catches her goodsister’s eye. Nodding towards her, Lyanna smiles only at the child. He is one of Geryon’s middle children. Although he has the Tully looks of his grandmother, little Ned has the serious mien of his namesake.

For a brief moment tears threaten to fill Lyanna’s eyes. There are days when she misses her brother so much that the pain is physical. And even so it is just a fraction of the anguish she feels at the permanent absence of another. There are days when she does not want to get up anymore.

The world no longer needs her. The realm has a King, kind and fair, and a Queen, sweet and wise. Her children are grown and happy, settled each with their own family. Her work is done. She may rest now at last.

“Your Majesty,” Geryon calls her attention, “would you be so good as to settle this argument here between myself and your brother?”

Or mayhap not.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
